


The Perilous Adventures of Police Dog Derek

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles Stilinski, Enemies to Friends, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, The Sheriff's Name is John Fight Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: “Seriously, though.”  Stiles squints at his dad.  “Since when did you start talking to yourself?  Did empty nest syndrome really hit you that hard?”John goes back around the counter, flipping the bacon in one skillet and then stirring up some eggs in the other.“I was talking to Scout,” he says placidly.“Who the fuh — fudge is Scout?”John rolls his eyes.  “Scout, say hi.”BOOF!Stiles jumps, spilling hot coffee down his arm.“Jesus!” he yelps.  He licks his dripping arm — waste not, want not — and then rounds the kitchen island.Sitting there, looking way too smug, is — well, he’s not exactly willing to bet the house on it, but Stiles is 99% sure that that’s a motherfuckingwerewolf.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 149
Kudos: 3269
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	The Perilous Adventures of Police Dog Derek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryptomoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptomoon/gifts).

> So...I had a good nine months to finish this before the 12/31 deadline, so of course I'm slipping it in under the wire with a few hours left. HUGE thanks to the incredible cryptomoon, who not only bid on me in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction but also pretty much outlined the whole first part of the story for me.
> 
> The title is a bit of a misnomer, but crypto referred to this fic as "The Adventures of Police Dog Derek" and it was so amazing I had to use it.

It’s probably one of the dumbest things Stiles has ever done, trying to drive the six hours from Stanford to Beacon Hills after staying up all night cramming for his last final. Coffee stopped cutting it by mid-afternoon, and he’s two Red Bulls and one 5-Hour Energy Drink in and hearing colors by the time he pulls the Jeep into the driveway.

He stumbles in the door, and almost face-plants as he trips over something. He makes a quick hop to catch his balance, and looks back at the obstacle. It’s a giant rawhide bone, bigger than his forearm, and it looks like a T-Rex has been gnawing on it. As Stiles looks around he sees other changes — a dog bed next to his dad’s armchair, a leash hanging on a hook by the door.

Stiles takes it all in, blinks a few times, and then shrugs. He barely makes it upstairs, strips down to his boxers, and starfishes out on his bed. He’ll figure it out in the morning.

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of bacon, and — goddammit, he’s _ definitely _ been gone too long if his dad thinks he’s getting away with real bacon.

He stumbles down the stairs, hearing his dad talking as he gets closer. He must be on the phone with the station or something. When he pushes the kitchen door open, though, his dad is just standing there, talking to himself. 

“There he is,” John says, his voice fond. “I told you the smell would wake him right up.”

“Uh, dad? You feeling okay?”

John rounds the kitchen island and pulls Stiles into a hug, before shoving him back to arm’s length. 

“Better than you — Christ, kid, you look like you’re coming off a five-day bender.”

Stiles pouts a little, but then his dad is shoving a cup of coffee into his hands, and all is forgiven.

Stiles moans his appreciation, huffing the scent before he takes a tongue-scalding sip. He can practically feel the caffeine hit his bloodstream, clearing some of the cotton out of his head.

“Seriously, though.” He squints at his dad. “Since when did you start talking to yourself? Did empty nest syndrome really hit you that hard?”

John goes back around the counter, flipping the bacon in one skillet and then stirring up some eggs in the other. 

“I was talking to Scout,” he says placidly.

“Who the fuh — fudge is Scout?”

John rolls his eyes. “Scout, say hi.”

** _BOOF!_ **

Stiles jumps, spilling hot coffee down his arm.

“Jesus!” he yelps. He licks his dripping arm — waste not, want not — and then rounds the kitchen island.

Sitting there, looking way too smug, is — well, he’s not exactly willing to bet the house on it, but Stiles is 99% sure that that’s a motherfucking _ werewolf_.

“Scout, huh?” Stiles tries to convey via squinty-eyes that he is on to the lycanthropic interloper in his kitchen.

“Are you about to sneeze or something? There’s Zyrtec in the cabinet,” his dad says, and okay. Maybe Stiles needs to practice this look in the mirror before it’s ready for prime time.

“And where did — _ Scout _ — come from?”

Stiles idly scratches his belly. The werewolf’s eyes follow the movement.

“Hey. Eyes up here,” Stiles snaps, suddenly realizing he’s only wearing raggedy boxer shorts.

He glances up from the ‘wolf to find his dad giving him The Look. 

“And you thought I was the one going crazy?” his dad snorts. “Have a seat, this is almost ready.”

John slides the bacon strips onto a plate with a paper towel on it, and divides the eggs between two other plates.

“He was one of the K9 recruits,” John explains. “Smart as a whip, but he had some trouble following orders. Especially when that asshole Haigh was giving ‘em. He washed outta the program, and I was worried he’s a little too big to get adopted, so I decided he’d come home with me. Best decision I ever made. He’s a champ.”

John turns to the ‘wolf, his voice dropping to a sickeningly-sweet croon. “Aren’t you a good boy?” he coos. “Want some bacon?”

The ‘wolf sits back on his haunches, tongue lolling out, as John dangles a strip of bacon above him. He gives a sharp yip. John drops the bacon and the ‘wolf snatches it out of the air, white teeth flashing as he crunches it down in a single bite.

“See?” John smiles proudly. “Smart as a whip.”

“Yeeeaaaah.” Stiles eyes the ‘wolf. “That’s some trick.”

* * *

Stiles watches as his dad meticulously buckles the harness vest around the ‘wolf’s massive chest.

“Therapy dog, huh?”

John looks up and beams. “Yeah, still don’t know who, but someone had the bright idea — left the brochure on my desk. All of his training meant he passed the certification without a hitch. He can still go to the station, but he’s with me most of the day. Comforts victims of crimes, and that kind of thing.”

And, okay...Stiles has to admit, that’s a pretty good gig. Mr. Fluffy over there must have done some quick thinking.

“Are you sure you wanna take him to work today?” Stiles tries to look as innocent as possible. “I’m happy to take care of him. We could go for a walk, play some fetch. Y’know. Bond.”

Scout growls, and John clicks his tongue at him. “No, Scout.” He shakes his head. “Not sure what’s gotten into him. He’s usually friendly to everyone.”

He pats his pockets, checking for his phone, his wallet, his badge. “Glad you mentioned it though. I’ve got that training in Modesto this weekend. Think you could look after him then?”

Stiles grins, wide and guileless. “Happy to.”

* * *

“You sure you got it all? I mean, I could probably take him with me…”  
  
“Dad!” Stiles brandishes the written list of instructions John had prepared. “I’m about to graduate from Stanford, I _ can _ read, y’know. I’ve got this.” 

“Yeah, okay.” John pats his pockets one more time, and then crouches down. “Be good for Stiles, okay boy?” 

Scout yips, moving his head in a slight nod, and _ Jesus _ how has his dad not figured this out by now?

“Of course you will,” John croons. “You’re a _ good _ boy. You’re the _ best _ boy. You’re the best boy in the _ whole _ —”

“You’re gonna be late,” Stiles interrupts.

“Oh. Yeah.” John at least has the good sense to look a little embarrassed as he straightens up, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon, okay? Just don’t forget to walk him, and be sure to mix in the wet food with —”

“Yeah, yeah. Get going, old man.” Stiles practically pushes John out the door.

He folds his arms over his chest and stares the ‘wolf down, waiting. He hears his dad’s car start, and then the sound of it backing up. He waits until the low sound of the engine passes completely out of his range of hearing, unwilling to risk that his dad might come back for something he forgot.

Finally, he’s pretty sure the coast is clear.

“Okay, spill. What the hell kind of con are you running on my dad, pretending like you’re just a dog?”

Scout cowers a little, and whines. He furrows his brows, and gives Stiles the literal puppy-dog eyes.

“Knock it off,” Stiles says sternly. “You are _ obviously _ a werewolf. You’re like the werewolfiest werewolf to ever werewolf.”

Scout whines again. He tilts his head to one side, and then scratches his ear with a back paw, his big brown eyes practically saying, ‘Would a human do _ this__?’_

“Nope,” Stiles snaps. “Not buying it.”

Scout stands up, and Stiles steps back, giving him room for the transformation. 

Scout moves a little closer...and then slinks right past Stiles, darting up the stairs.

“Hey!” Stiles is frozen in surprise for a moment before he gives chase. “Where do you think you’re going!?”

He makes it up the stairs just in time to see Scout’s fluffy tail disappearing into his room.

“What the hell — what do you think? —”

Scout turns around, looks Stiles right in the eye, and lifts his leg.

“You wouldn’t _ dare _ —”

Scout pees directly on Stiles’ computer chair.

* * *

The next hour is a medley of Stiles scrubbing down the computer chair in between attempts to poke Scout out from under his bed with the bristle-end of a broom. Neither endeavor is successful.

“You’re buying me a new one,” he yells out as he bumps the chair down the stairs, taking it out to the street for trash. He flops down on the couch in frustration, leaving Scout to sulk for awhile. He’ll start back up with the broom-poking after he’s rested for a bit.

He loses himself in a _ How It’s Made _ marathon, and by the time his growling stomach rouses him from his stupor it’s long past dinner time. Stiles straightens up from his boneless slouch, every vertebra in his spine cracking, and realizes that Scout has been lying quietly out of sight beside the couch, eyes on the television.

“You sneak,” Stiles says indignantly. “No cool documentary television for bad wolves.” He turns off the television and stands up, regarding the ‘wolf thoughtfully. He grabs his dad’s instructions from the hall table and then heads to the kitchen.

He goes up to his dad’s wall phone — man, curly cord and everything, his dad is _ ancient _ — and pulls off the receiver.

“So, I’m just about to order a pizza. Meat lovers’, with extra cheese. I’m sure it will be delicious. Wanna get in on that, or are you still determined to have your…” — Stiles consults his dad’s instructions and then picks up one of the plastic containers of wet dog food — “Little Cesar’s...Filet Mignon Flavor with Spring Vegetables.” 

Scout raises an eyebrow.

“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” Stiles admits. 

Scout is watching him smugly, like he knows Stiles is considering tasting the dog food.

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles says, and places the order.

* * *

Stiles eats the pizza as ostentatiously as he can, pulling each slice off the pie in slow motion so that strings of melted cheese are visible, groaning appreciatively as he chews. Scout doesn’t crack. He stares intently, and licks his chops, but then huffs off to the kitchen to eat his gourmet dog food.

Stiles puts the leftover pizza in the fridge when he’s done. Scout is sitting patiently by the back door.

“You wanna go out, huh?” 

Scout yips.

“Well, doorknob’s right there, buddy. Help yourself.”

Scout stares at the door and then back at Stiles.

After a long moment in which neither of them budge, Scout stands. And then starts to squat.

“Jesus, no!” Stiles lunges forward, throwing open the latch and turning the knob. He opens the door and Scout darts out, disappearing into the shadows of the yard. 

“You win this one,” Stiles yells after him. “But I am _ not _ picking up your werewolf poop!”

The back light flips on next door, and Stiles is treated to some quality raised eyebrows from his neighbor.

“Hi Mrs. Donaghy!” he says weakly. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” 

She gathers her bathrobe more tightly around her and gives him the stink-eye, and he tactically retreats.

* * *

Stiles waits by the back door, grumbling, until Scout scratches to come in.

He has a moment of uncertainty. If Scout actually _ is _ a dog, Stiles is kind of being a dick to him. And then Scout wipes his paws carefully on the mat before padding into the house, and Stiles is angry all over again.

He grumps back to the sofa, and turns the show on again. Before he knows it he’s deep into the construction of spiral stairs and then pita bread, and his eyes are starting to close, each blink lasting longer than the last.

* * *

He wakes up in the morning with his head on the ground and his legs still up on the couch, a puddle of drool sticking his cheek to the hardwood. He’s an idiot.

He gingerly straightens himself out, rolling his neck and arching his back. He ends up on the floor, his spine pressed back against the couch, and then looks up to find Scout just sitting there, _ judging _ him.

“Shut up with those eyebrows,” Stiles snaps.

He heaves himself to his feet, desperate for coffee. 

He’s gulping down the second cup before he even notices. The fridge door is slightly ajar, and the pizza box is open on the floor, licked clean.

“Sonuvabitch!” 

He slams the fridge door the rest of the way closed. “That’s it — I’m getting child locks for everything. You want people-food, you pop out those opposable thumbs, jerkass.”

His neck aches and his head is pounding, and he’s so mad he can barely see straight. It’s an empty threat - his dad gets back today, and he’s not gonna believe any reason Stiles could possibly give him for why he’s childproofed the house. 

“That’s it.” Stiles pulls his phone from his back pocket. It’s only got about 5% battery left, but that’s enough to send a text.

* * *

Stiles has been drinking more and more coffee, staring down the ‘wolf, and he feels like he’s about to jitter right out of his skin. When the knock on the door comes he full-body startles, and his coffee mug almost goes flying. 

They both stalk to the front door, and Stiles swings it open.

Scott leans in, taking one look and a big sniff.

“Yeah, that’s a ‘wolf all right,” he says. “What the hell, man?”

He flashes his eyes red, and the ‘wolf’s eyes flash back instinctively, just as red.

And then the ‘wolf is just a blur of motion, rushing past Scott and out the door.

Stiles is frozen for a moment and then he lunges after him. 

“Shit.” He steps on a rock as soon as he makes it off the porch, and hops on one bare foot for a few seconds. _ “Shit.” _ The ‘wolf has already disappeared.

“Seriously, man.” Scott is just staring at Stiles from the doorway. “Why is he pretending to be a dog?”

Stiles makes a gesture that he can only hope adequately encompasses his general mood of ‘how the hell am I supposed to know?’ He limps back up the porch stairs.

“I mean,” Scott is still going on. “Was he trying to get your dad’s bank information or something, like a con artist?”

Stiles frowns. “I doubt it. Most of dad’s money is in his pension. And he was already pretending to be a dog for the K9 unit before my dad decided to adopt him. It would be, like, the worst plan ever. I mean, he might have been put to sleep instead.”

“So, why would he do it?” Scott is annoyingly persistent, asking all the questions that Stiles wishes he had asked himself earlier. “Was he like, up to no good at the police station, or —”

_ “No.” _ Stiles finds himself almost offended on Scout’s behalf. “I mean, he was working as a therapy dog, and passed that training with flying colors, so he must’ve wanted to do it.”

Scott hums thoughtfully, making his way to the kitchen.

“Something must’ve been really wrong, then,” Scott says, poking through the fridge. “I mean, for him to think that pretending to be a dog was the best option. Like maybe he was hiding from those hunters we’ve heard about, or maybe he was stuck that way for some reason, or —”

“Can that even happen?” Stiles is starting to feel sick to his stomach. Why didn’t he think of any of this before?

“I don’t know, dude.” Scott pulls open the pantry door and gives Stiles a look. “You know more about werewolves than I do.”

It was true. For chrissakes, Scott hadn’t even realized he was a werewolf until Stiles told him. And Stiles was always the research guy. Why hadn’t he put a little more research into this?

He knew the answer, though. He was always a little irrationally overprotective whenever his dad was concerned.

“My dad,” Stiles says aloud, feeling his stomach roil uncomfortably. “He — he _ loves _ that fucking dog. He’s coming home tonight, and he’s gonna be worried if Scout’s not here. I mean, I’m off at college and he’s all by himself most of the time, and — _ shit_.”

Stiles runs a frantic hand through his hair. “We’ve gotta find him.”

“Your dad?” Scott has his head buried in the kitchen cabinet. He pops out with a granola bar in his hand.

“Not my dad! Scout — the _‘wolf! _ Like you said, something may be wrong — maybe he needs help, or — Scott, he’s been with my dad for _ weeks _ and he hasn’t done a thing, he can’t be that bad, right?”

Scott’s little face is all scrunched up in confusion. “I thought you wanted him gone?”  
  
“I _ did! _ But now — I don’t. Keep up, Scottie!”

Scott takes a big bite out of the granola bar. “But I have a shift at the clinic,” he whines, crumbs falling out of his mouth.

Stiles pulls in a deep breath. “Okay.” He slaps Scott on the back. “Thanks, man. You’ve done enough. You can head back. Lock the door behind you, okay?”

“What’re you gonna do?” Scott asks.

Stiles is already charging up the stairs to find his shoes. “I’m gonna find that fucking ‘wolf.”

* * *

Honestly, Stiles should have seen this coming. On side A is one werewolf, with lupine grace and an intrinsic affinity for nature and all that supernatural shit, who doesn’t want to be found. On side B is one flaily moron, who went galumphing off alone through the woods with only a sputtering flashlight and two percent phone battery, in search of said werewolf.

The result, of course, is that Scout is nowhere to be seen and Stiles is sitting up against a tree, cradling his sprained ankle in his hands, and trying to hold back tears as he stares morosely at the black screen of his dead phone.

He’s not gonna die out here. Probably. Call it maybe 99% odds of survival. It’s a warm summer night. When his dad gets home and Stiles isn’t there he’ll eventually call Scott, and Scott will come sniff him out. But in the meantime, Stiles is here, in pain and darkness, with nothing to do but think about how he’s fucked up this whole situation so very badly.

There’s a rustling nearby, and he drops his odds of survival to about 80%. Maybe closer to 20% if it’s a bear or a mountain lion.

Red eyes glow from the shadows, and Scout slinks forward. 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles says, knocking his head back against the tree trunk. He doesn’t know if his odds of survival just went dramatically up or down.

“If you’re gonna rip out my throat with your teeth, just do it quick,” Stiles says, hating the way his voice quavers.

Scout creeps closer. He sniffs at Stiles’ ankle briefly, and then huffs a sigh.

He sits back on his haunches. A full-body shake passes over his body, and then suddenly Stiles is looking at a man.

A fucking _ gorgeous _ man, with a jaw so sharp it could cut glass and pale multicolored eyes that are beautiful even in the dim moonlight. 

Stiles doesn’t know what he expected — didn’t expect _ anything_, really — but he’s still struck by how _ young _ he looks, only a few years older than Stiles maybe. 

The man sits down beside Stiles. He reaches out a hand, but waits for Stiles’ nod before placing his fingers tentatively against the skin of Stiles’ ankle.

They both watch as the veins of his forearm darken. Stiles sags back against the tree trunk in relief as the sharp pain in his ankle fades away. He feels warm all over now, and a little loopy.

Eventually Stiles shrugs out of his hoodie and hands it over to the guy. The guy takes it, but stares down at it in confusion. His eyebrows are just as ridiculously expressive in this form as they were in ‘wolf form.

Stiles can’t help the giggle that escapes him. 

“Dude. You are, like, _ super _ naked.”

It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but Stiles thinks the guy might be blushing. He gathers the hoodie into his lap.

Stiles should be asking questions, or giving instructions, or something, but his head is still a little spinny, and for now he’s uncharacteristically content to just sit here in silence for a little while. The forest rustles around them as a warm breeze blows through. The man’s shoulder is warm where it’s pressed against Stiles’.

“I —” the man starts. His voice sounds rusty and he clears his throat and starts again. “I wasn’t going to do anything to hurt your dad,” he says. “He’s — he’s a really nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “He is.” 

It takes Stiles a few more minutes before he realizes the guy isn’t going to say anything else unprompted.

“So, what _ was _ your plan?” he finally asks.

The man frowns down at his lap. He fiddles with the strings on Stiles’ hoodie for a few more moments before shrugging.

“I didn’t really have one,” he admits. “My sister was the last of my family, and she was killed by hunters a couple of months ago. I was living out here, like this, when Animal Control got me, and...it all just kind of happened.”

Stiles thinks that over for awhile. “Why didn’t you just shift back when no one was looking — get free?”

The man shrugs again. Stiles thinks that’s the end of it, but after a few long minutes he says, so softly that Stiles can barely hear him, “It felt good to be taken care of again. To — to _ matter _ to someone.”

Jesus, Stiles feels like he’s gonna cry all over again.

Eventually the man stands up. He awkwardly zips the hoodie up and ties the sleeves around his waist, and Stiles doesn’t know how he does it but he’s _ rocking _ the hoodie miniskirt. Must be those muscular thighs that Stiles was _ definitely _ not ogling.

He holds out a hand to Stiles. “C’mon. I’ll help you get back home.”

Stiles climbs gingerly to his feet, and then squawks as the man scoops him up, bridal style, as if he weighs nothing.

Stiles bats at an impressively bulging bicep. “At least let me go piggyback and retain some dignity!”

The man sighs, but then sets Stiles gently back to the ground. They rearrange themselves, and Stiles holds on tight as the man sets off back through the woods.

“So, what’s your name?” Stiles asks after a few minutes, trying to ignore the feeling of the man’s warm hands cradling the backs of his thighs. “I don’t think I should call you Scout anymore.”

“Derek,” the man says. He doesn’t sound even slightly out of breath. “Hale,” he adds. 

A few more things come into focus for Stiles. The Hale house fire is a local legend by now. He’s stood in front of the trophy case at school for longer than he’d like to admit, wondering about what happened to the smiling kid in the picture of the State Championship-winning basketball team after he and his sister were the only ones to survive the tragedy.

“Nice to meet you, Derek,” Stiles finally manages.

He yelps and tightens his grip around Derek’s shoulders as Derek effortlessly jumps over a rotting log. 

“We’ll tell my dad that you’re a friend of mine from college who is crashing with us for the summer,” Stiles decides aloud. “And that Scout slipped out the door when you were bringing your stuff in.”

Derek’s even jog slows for just a minute, and then resumes its steady pace. “Why would you do that?” The Preserve parking lot is coming into view, Stiles’ jeep shining bright and beautiful under the only streetlight.

“Huh?” Stiles is already thinking ahead. Derek can wear some of his clothes for tonight, and then tomorrow they can make a run to Target and get him some stuff that fits. He plays back Derek’s question in his head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Derek slows to a stop by the Jeep. He loosens his grip and Stiles slides to the ground, hopping awkwardly for a minute before he leans against the Jeep.

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes, his brow furrowed. “You don’t even _ know _ me,” he says.

“That’s bullshit.” Stiles is not good with feelings, so he’s just going to power through. “My dad adopted you. You’re a Stilinski now. Get used to it.” 

Stiles can feel his face flushing a little. “Now, please tell me you can drive stick,” he says, fishing the car keys out of his pocket.

Derek’s cheeks are a little red too, but his eyes are bright and hopeful. 

“Of course I can drive stick,” he says, the grumbly tone of his voice at odds with how solicitously he helps Stiles up into the passenger seat of the Jeep.

“Good.” Stiles presses the car keys into Derek’s hand, holding on for a moment too long until Derek meets his eyes again. “Then let’s go home.”

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT

John is exhausted by the time he gets home. The second day of training ran long, and then there was construction taking the freeway down to one lane.

He parks the cruiser on the street, and then bumps his overnight bag up the porch steps.

“I’m home,” he says, dropping his keys on the entry table. He hears the television on in the living room, and makes his way there.

The t.v. is on in the background, but Stiles is talking animatedly to a young man with dark hair, waving a slice of pizza in the air. He seems to be saying something about spiral stairs, and John shakes his head fondly.

The other young man looks at John, and Stiles finally notices him, dropping the slice of pizza back into the box and leaping to his feet, before wobbling and hopping a little to rebalance. His ankle is wrapped in an elastic bandage.

“Dad!” Stiles wipes his greasy fingers on his sweatpants. “This is —”

“Derek,” John says evenly, holding out a hand to the young man standing awkwardly in his living room, wearing his son’s sweatpants and Beacon Hills Lacrosse t-shirt. “Glad you felt comfortable enough to shift back. Hope my son didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

Both boys seem to freeze for a moment, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Some people think Stiles gets his tendency for mischief from Claudia, but John knows better.

“What.” Stiles says. _ “What!?” _ And then, “WHAT!?!”

John reaches out and snags a piece of the meat lover’s pizza, and then lowers himself into his favorite armchair with a relieved groan. If he’s lucky, he might even be able to eat the whole slice before Stiles gets over his surprise.

“You knew?” Derek asks softly.

“I figured.” John smiles. “You look even more like your mom when you’re in full shift. She had that same brown spot, right under her chin, when she was shifted.”

_ “WHAT!?!?!?!” _ Stiles says. “You — you _ knew _ about the supernatural, and you never told me?!”

John takes another big bite of his pizza, savoring it before answering.

“It’s not like you told me either,” he says pointedly. “Son, you get up to enough trouble in the _ natural _ world. I figured the supernatural one could wait awhile.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, and John settles in for what is likely to be a long lecture. 

It’s good to be home.


End file.
